Bits and pieces

Writing this one on the fly, so short sentences and quick thoughts are the order of the day.

Firstly, you should know that I'm feeling somewhat rebellious of late. I'm wearing the L headphone from my iPod in my R ear. And you know what, I don't care.

Christmas markets are being built in and around Antwerp now. So very exciting and cool...





Expect more soon.

Heard some music from this dude / band, which is quite profound. A wee twenty-something with some even more profound lyrics. He sings something like "You are not your job, you are not the clothes you wear. You are the words you speak." Hmmm...

Anyhow, some other music from him / them:

War Of The Worlds

Also, have signed up to Facebook.... an experiment in spamming friends. Vague irritation from the people you love. I'll keep you posted.

The Sirolux Conspiracy

What started out rather pleasantly has now ended in what I can only describe as the recognition of an awful, awful conspiracy.

You see, I had never walked into that room before. And the man before me was a stranger. Resplendent in perfect white, with an even whiter smile.

He had a lovely head of golden, flowing hair. Not curly, but golden as one would expect.

The room itself was spotless. It was as though a beautiful, rotund cherub had been eating bags of white marshmallows and passed a bought of musical wind. A lovely, clean, pure smell.

But in spite of all of this pleasantness, I was a nervous man. And the shining man before me knew it all too well. But before I could open my mouth to plea, he motioned me to it. A big chunk of machinery at the other end of the room.

It needed no introduction. I had seen it before. The Sirolux 3000. The Weapon of Dental Reconstruction. The Dunking Chair of Dentists.

I was at the dentist. And the Sirolux 3000 would be the home of my lifeless, limpless, carcass for the next 36 minutes.

The only nice bit of the Sirolux 3000 is the liquid motion at which it lowers you into an horizontal position before the dentist begins prodding and poking about.

It was at this point I thought of calling him “Tooth Fairy”. I mean, he did look rather angelic in appearance. But I thought the better of it when he proceeded to put both of his hands in my mouth. They were much bigger than I had originally thought.

And it was whilst I was being lowered into my dental coma by the Sirolux 3000, that I began recognising signs of international conspiracy.

It’s not that I don’t like dentists, (or electronic chairs, for that matter). It’s just that I kind of feel, well, hard done by these men in white.

I mean, you spend some significant part of your life, every morning, every night, rinsing, flossing, brushing, and spitting. All in the name of clean teeth. Only to have to make the painful, fearful, sweaty, nervous trip to the dentist on regular occasions and sit on his Sirolux.

What on earth for? Had they forgotten to tell us something? Could they not just write some instructions down? Are they keeping it secret how to really keep your teeth clean?

Do you see? The preventative measures aren't helping.

So this is my theory. I think it is all part of a cruel, dental plot. The Dentum Illuminati. Like the mafia, but for dentists, who ensure that toothpastes and toothbrushes don’t actually help your teeth… they make them worse.

I mean, think about it: if someone would invent a really good toothbrush, the dentist would be out of a job. See what I’m saying?

So, as the Sirolux 3000 and dentist began shaking and spinning and drilling about, he mentions to me that I should go and “see his friend”, the Gum Specialist.

Say what? I have to go to a gum specialist?

“But aren’t you a dentist?” I mumble with an impressive amount of diction, considering his hands are still in my mouth.

“Oh yes, but my specialism is teeth, not gums, you see.” he gently replies.

Well blow me down and dump a can of fluoride in my mouth. Which is exactly what he did.

Call me provincial, but isn’t this gum / dentist thing also just a little bit… well… silly? I mean, whilst you’re studying to become a dentist, you’re in the general mouth region, aren’t you? Would it kill you to read up a bit on the things that hold the teeth in? Why not make the effort to look but ten degrees lower and consider the gums, too? It’s like learning how to drink and enjoy wine, but having no actual idea how to get the bottle open. Quick. Call the Cork Specialist.

And again I smell a conspiracy.

But Tooth Fairy was adamant. To the Gum Doctor I must go.

So anyway. I now have to pay Tooth Fairy and Gummy Bear protection money.

And every morning, every night, I look at my toothbrush and toothpaste. Yes, it does say on the tube that it is 99% effective in preventing any tooth problems. Which of course also implies that it is 1% pretty bloody ineffective.

Ritual and Sacrifice

It’s the year 2007. We have the Internet, high definition TV, self-cleaning ovens and hybrid cars.

But in spite of all these wondrous advancements that make the life of modern people easier, there remains one savage, brutal and ghastly task. One activity that has not developed over the ages; one that has not become easier.

If you have not guessed already, I am talking about the demonic task of laundry. Laundry at the laundro-mat. Even the barbaric Mayans had no such ruthless ritual of laundry at the laundro-mat. Look away now if you are of a nervous disposition.

Laundry. I used to enjoy it. But no more. Each visit to the laundro-mat results in penance. In sacrifice.

And the high priestesses of washing (women) leave us peasants (men) in ignorance.

Ask a question to a high priestess and she will give you an answer in a language none of us understand; the language of Colour, Softener and Spin Cycle.

Now, please understand, I am not being chauvinistic. I believe that women, still to this day, have had to work harder than men to achieve. But, perhaps in silent revenge, they have made a pact with women all over the planet, to – much like the Freemasons – keep the proper ritual and practice of laundry secret.

The result is catastrophic. Men, like me, are forced to sacrifice many socks (only one at a time, mind), colours and shapes per visit to the laundro-mat.

I think the god (who is not really a god, just someone with lots of mismatching socks) of laundry is well pleased with the feed after each of my visits.

My visits to the altar - the Wishee Washee as it is called colloquially – are almost always a plight against despair. Other men gather, too. There’s almost always a priestess there. With a knowing glare, a book which she pretends to read, and I think a hidden camera.

The men know of her powers. Of her strength. But our inert will to succeed (some call it stupidity) prevent us from asking the priestess for wisdom. We men look amongst each other. The question is obvious. What temperature?

A magical coin is extracted from one of the peasant’s pockets. Well, let’s see. There is a selection of 5 temperatures on the washing machine. 20 is too cold. And surely 80 is too hot. We want clean clothes, not boiled potatoes. And so we take the difference between the two and end up with a choice of 40 or 60. The magic coin is flipped, heads it’s 40 and so on.

Our first challenge is passed. Or is it? The priestess pretends not to notice our endeavours. She makes no comment, but exhales a series of “Pfhmss” and “Tsk, tsks” just to try and make us loose concentration, I believe.

We are unwavering. Next it’s to decide where to actually pour the powder. And what if you have powder blocks? What are you supposed to do then?

Tears well up in one of the men’s eyes. The pressure is too great. He breaks rank and looks to the priestess. She points slowly to the East. Which is more or less in the direction of the pictorial instructions that are hung from the wall. Blasted. Instructions.

We can tell the look in her eyes. She thinks we are idiots. She knows much.

Next we proceed to put our washing in. I feel brave. I put everything together. I want to get out of the hellish place as fast as possible, so I make no separation. “It don’t matter if you’re black or white” as the song goes.

I can feel the eyes of the high priestess down the back of my neck. I break out in a cold sweat.

The other men, sensing her displeasure, have bolted.

She clears her throat with a giggle and proceeds to say nothing.

The machine speaks to me. As soon as I close and lock the door, it says “38 minutes” until the cycle of death is completed.

It is at this point that the black magic bursts forth from the deepest crevices of hell, and – without opening the door of the machine – internally combusts each and every item of clothing within.

Water and powder cannot produce such chaotic effect. No. A darker force is at work here.

If you can, stay away. The Wishee-Washee is no place for men.

Books and Revelations

I've got Barry playing at the moment.

No. Not Manilow.

White.

You really get all of it here. Diana Ross, Madonna, etc. I know. Dodgy taste in music. You should see what I wear.

Anyhow. My word. What a past couple of days. Tough. All self-inflicted, I may add. But most of the truly worthwhile stuff usually is, I'm beginning to think.

South Africa (what, was it as long ago as 2 weeks, now?) was truly wonderful. As I mentioned, it was to visit my family. Eight years since our last Christmas. And now, hopefully just 11 months until our next. Good news, indeed.

But South Africa is a different place. No, that's wrong. South Africa is the same, beautiful place. I'm the one who has changed.

After being away for so long, I am so out of touch. And I've forgotten just how harsh the African sun can be. On a mission to get a tan to show off to the folk back here in Antwerp, I scoffed at the use of sun cream, t-shirts and hats. After all, Bushmen do not require these things. And therein lay may first revelation of the trip. I am not a Bushman. I was - for all intensive purposes during the first few days of intense sunburn - a Twit.

I was given a fantastic book while on holiday. It's called 'Pale Native' by Max du Preez. It's described as 'memories of a renegade reporter'; it's Max' memoirs of his time as southern Africa's top investigative journalist in the apartheid years, the transition to democracy, and the early governing years of the ANC.

It was such an historical eye-opener! During my early school years, we were taught so many historical truths about heroes. But many historical inaccuracies, too. It was so interesting to read about the real history of South Africa; about heroic Afrikaners, Zulu's, Xhosa's and others who inhabited the land.

Max' style is un-relentless. Therein lay my second revelation of the holiday. That to pursue the truth at all costs and to tell it like it is often causes you to be labelled a maverick. A loose cannon. The rewards can be high. But the punishment is harsh.

The third revelation was this: in the years when the apartheid government was still in power and the ANC still banned, secret meeting were held out of the country with the exiled ANC leadership, and Africans of all kinds and from all backgrounds. Business, religion, art, literature. The thing that was a revelation to me was the art and literature bit. But I guess if you look through history, artists, poets, writers - they all make a significant impact on present-day thoughts and feelings. Amazing.

Anyhow, if you're interested in South African history, I'd highly recommend it.

Another good read is Frank Peretti's The House. Horror book. And I hate horrors. Why? Because they're generally horrible. They clue is in the title. Good book, though. Couldn't put it down.

I've also never laughed so much in a long, long time. I went canoe-ing. In the big ocean. What a silly thing to do. Particularly off a launching beach called Shark's Rock. Again, the clue is in the title.

But, combined with the encouraging and hilarious instruction from my brother, it was an unforgettable, and thankfully shark-less, experience.

I've also re-discovered my love of gardening, having worked with my mum and dad in theirs. Well, 'gardening' sounds awfully convoluted. It's really just digging in the dirt, isn't it? Just like when you were a small kid. I love it.

I'm free (as in available, not as in for nothing) for any gardening you may need done. My contact details are on the homepage.

Anyhow, I'm looking forward to the year ahead. On return to Belgium, it's been a roller-coaster, shaky, uncertain ride so far. But that's a good thing, yeah?

Oh yeah - check out some of my latest pics on Flickr.